


Hiding in plain sight

by GothicBeeza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:24:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3180326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GothicBeeza/pseuds/GothicBeeza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft comes to Sherlock to help solve the disappearance of a Minor MP. But who is his wife, Abigail, and why is Mycroft so determined to help her?<br/>AU - set a few years after the second coming of Moriarty (so think 2018)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had been many months since his brother had come to him with a case - something to do with all the work he had done over the last few years earning him a bit of a reprieve - so when Mycroft Holmes phoned him with a case that needed looking into personally, he was immediately intrigued.

Which was why, sitting across from an unassuming young woman, Sherlock was a little more than annoyed at Mycroft’s trickery.

He knew all about this case already - Minor lordling goes missing (apparently kidnapped, but thus far no ransom), unusual in itself as this particular lord had a small (according to Mycroft) position in the government. The woman sitting across from Sherlock was his wife - who seemingly ALSO worked for the government. This also explained Mycroft’s appearance right behind her.

He sighed, indicating to the woman that she should begin her story (“and don’t be boring”) in her own words. She took a steeling breath, and began.

“Mr Holmes, my name is Lady Abigail Hartley. My husband, Lord Trevor Hartley, has been missing for over a week now. His office showed little signs of a struggle, and thus far there has been no request for a ransom. I am loathe to go to the police as Trevor was involved in some...confidential matters for the government that could be jeopardized if anyone was to discover his disappearance-”

“So why come to me?” Sherlock interrupted.

She gave him a look, one that could easily have cowed a lesser man, and simply continued “I have come to you, Mr Holmes, because My...employer here assures me that this is something you can deal with rather discreetly”.

Mycroft appeared to shift uncomfortably behind her, something Sherlock was sure he would deal with another time. For now, he was determined to get rid of this ridiculous case.

He looked over the woman - clearly on office worker, probably a low level admin assistant, her suit very plain and non-descript. She couldn’t be more than 28, although she seemed far more mature. A little on the plump side - clearly a result of office work and married life- with auburn hair and what appeared to be a smattering of freckles hidden beneath her makeup. The way she spoke about her husband seemed somewhat detached. Whether it was because she had rehearsed this little speech, or the marriage was in fact unhappy, he couldn’t be sure.

What he was sure of was everything he was observing was completely superficial. He couldn’t get a proper read on her at all. It was perplexing.

“Mrs Hartley- “

“Lady” Mycroft stated.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at this, but proceed “My apologies - _Lady_ Hartley - has it at all occurred to you that your husband has faked his disappearance, and is in fact lying on a beach somewhere surrounded by beautiful women”.

To her credit, she didn’t even flinch. She merely stood up from her seat, brushed off her skirt, and stared Sherlock down.

“Mr Holmes”, she began in a deadly calm voice, “I don’t care if my Husband is on a yacht in the Caribbean drunk out of his mind. I need you to find him. I just need to know”.

The sudden silence in the room was palpable, with Lady Hartley not breaking eye contact with Sherlock once, and Mycroft torn between looking uncomfortable, and trying not to laugh at her audacity.  After what seemed like an eternity (but was probably less than a minute), Sherlock also stood up, fixed his jacket, and smiled.

“I’ll take the case Lady Hartley, I will need as much information as you and my brother can provide. I will be in touch”.

He reached out to shake her hand, receiving a warm smile from her in return.

As she turned to leave, Sherlock suddenly had thought.

“Lady Hartley, you didn’t say what it is you do for my brother”.

The warm smile suddenly turned into a smirk.

“You could say I’m his assistant’s assistant”.

And with that, she left the room, leaving Mycroft to speak with Sherlock.

“I will courier you over the file for this case. I know it’s a little below what you are used to, but I appreciate this personal favour”.

“Yes well, I _appreciate_ that I will be able to lord this over you for many months to come brother dear”.

Mycroft turned on his heel, collecting his signature umbrella from its position by the door, and continued down the stairs to join Lady Hartley in the car parked out the front of Baker Street.

 

Sherlock crossed to the window, watching as the car pulled away from the curb, wondering - not for the first time that afternoon - exactly who Abigail Hartley was, and what was her relationship with his brother.

 

The rest of his day was spent on his laptop, looking up Trevor and Abigail Hartley whilst waiting for the file to come over. He couldn’t find much - both had fairly generic Facebook pages, neither had a twitter account - their social media presence was minimal, Which wasn’t surprising considering they both worked in government. Sherlock tossed his laptop onto the small coffee table and laid back on the lounge in a bit off a huff. By all appearances, these two were the most boring couple in existence (and that was saying something considering Andersons new girlfriend). He knew there had to be more to this case than this, otherwise Mycroft wouldn’t have intervened.

 

After waiting nearly an hour, one of Mycrofts many little helpers (or “minions” as Sherlock liked to consider them) arrived with the case file. It contained a biography of both Lord and Lady Hartley, including a small piece on their positions within the British government. There was also photographs of the supposed crime scene - Lord Hartleys office. This annoyed him greatly, as it meant he would be unable to look over the room fresh. He cast aside this information for the moment, focusing on the couple themselves. He had learned over the years to focus on the human element of a case, as that could tell you almost as much as the physical evidence (or sometimes lack there-of) could. He flicked over to the personnel file,and began reading:

 

_Lord Trevor Xavier Hartley_

_Born January 29th 1986 at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital_

_Parents: Craig Steven Hartley (25) and Sandra Kathleen Hartley (25) (nee Ryley)_

_Attended Kensington Aldridge Academy, graduated top 15th percentile, studied Politics and Economics at Cambridge. Began work for the british government after graduation in 2008, is now a minor member of parliament working with the Treasurer._

 

_Awarded the title “Lord” for “services to Queen and country” in 2011 in a closed ceremony -_ Sherlock made a note in his mind palace to ask Mycroft exactly what that entailed.

 

_Abigail Violet McKenzie_

_Born: March 9th 1990 at St Mary’s Hospital London_

_Parents: Andrea Louise McKenzie (19), deceased as of July 14th 2005 -father unknown._

_Lived with her Aunt - Julia Moran (nee McKenzie, widowed) in Dublin._

_Attended Our Lady of Mercy College in Dublin, graduated top 5th percentile. Studied business via correspondence at Trinity College, Dublin._

_Returned to England in 2012 to take a position as an Administrative Assistant in the Ministry of Defence._

 

_Married May 4th 2013_

 

Sherlock positioned his hands under his chin, his classic “thinking pose” as his best friend John Watson  would call it, as he assigned this information to various areas within his mind palace. After filing it all away, he finally turned to the photos of the crime that he had discarded earlier. Mycroft had had his own team come in, so as to eliminate the need for any police involvement. He took in the obvious information - Just a few things in the office out of place, no blood found at the scene. For the most part, it appeared exactly as Lady Hartley had explained: very little signs of a struggle. Sherlock found this the most puzzling - either he was dealing with experts who were able to drug Lord Hartley and remove his body without disturbing the room, or he wasn’t taken from there, and somebody had made a conscious effort to make it SEEM like might have been abducted from his office. Nothing about it sat right with him. Luckily, what little forensic evidence had been found had been collected and sent over to Saint Bartholomews for him to look at.

Sherlock smiled, thinking it had been a few days since he had popped in to see his favourite pathologist. He knew Molly had missed him, and thought it would be nice to spend some quality time together - analyzing samples from a maybe-crime scene. Maybe his day wouldn’t be wasted after all. He gathered up his things, and whistling happily, made his way downstairs to catch a cab to Barts.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you are enjoying this. I live for reviews.

The sight of Sherlock and John dramatically striding into her lab was a common one for Molly Hooper. One that always made her heart skip a beat, even after knowing Sherlock for so long. She tried to tamp down on this feeling, knowing that the boys (well...men really) were there on an important case for Mycroft. Molly watched as Sherlock immediately made a beeline to his favourite microscope, where she had already set up the evidence that Mycrofts men had sent over. She was used to this sort of behaviour though, and simply turned her attentions to John as he made his way over to her.

“Busy day?” She asked in way of a greeting.

“Seems an unusual one Molls” John replied, pretending not to notice Sherlock’s stiffening in reaction to the overly friendly nickname.

“More unusual than last month's case of the two men sewed together and thrown in the thames”?

He opened his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by Sherlock - “Molly if you are done with that mindless chit-chat, I do actually require your assistance over here”.

John gave Molly an apologetic look as she moved towards the bench that Sherlock was set up at. She knew his moods better than any, and understood that he could be rather short and to the point when dealing with a case. It was just his way, and she didn’t love him any less for it.

“What have you got there?”

Sherlock sighed and pushed away from the desk, rubbing his eyes that were only moments ago glued to the microscope.

“I need you to run some tests on this scrap of fabric. Theres a section that has clearly been doused in some sort of liquid - possibly a chemical but I can’t be sure yet. Once I have the results I can narrow down exactly where the scrap came from”.

Molly took the slide from him, just ghosting her fingers over his hand as she did.  
“So what exactly is this case that Mycroft has you working on? His goons didn’t tell me anything when they dropped this stuff off”.

He smirked at her description of his brothers men, “An apparent kidnapping of some minor MP. They would have gone to the police, but he was involved in some hush-hush stuff that would be seriously compromised should his disappearance become common knowledge. At least thats what his wife said anyway”.

“Wife?”  
“Yes, some pencil pusher over at the M.o.D - for some reason Mycroft has taken a personal interest in this case, and her to an extent”.

The two shared a smile, while John looked over the files he had only just been given access to - AGAIN attempting to ignore the obvious chemistry between them. Right now was not the time to try and push Sherlock and Molly together, even though both he and his wife Mary were in agreement to how perfect they would be.   
He skimmed through the biographies, much as Sherlock had done earlier in the day.

“How exactly does an Admin Assistant working in a low level at the Ministry of Defence manage to snag the attention of Mycroft bloody Holmes?” John asked from behind the file, “This is just about her husbands work right?”.

Sherlock looked perplexed, sighing “I don’t know. I don’t like not knowing”.

Molly pushed herself into action, heading out the lab to start on the testing “John, would you like a coffee while I’m out”?

“Ah, sure Molly. Black and no sugar thanks”.

She smiled and walked through the lab doors - not bothering to ask for Sherlock’s order as she knew it off by heart by now.

 

While waiting for the computer to spit out the results of the testing, the three friends sat around laughing about John’s daughter Shirley, and her recent escapades at the St Barts creche.

“You are a bad influence on that girl Sherlock!” John managed through his laughter, after regaling them with the tale of how Shirley had manage to slip free of the teacher and make her way into the 6 year olds group, completely oblivious to her carers distress. When confronted with why she had done it (once they had found her after looking for nearly two hours) she merely shrugged her shoulders and declared “it’s what Uncle ‘Lock would do”

Molly wiped her eyes of the tears that had been streaming down her face, “It really shouldn’t be this funny, but I can just see her little face!”.

This set off another round of giggling, before the ping of the computer cut through. They all anxiously made their way over to look over the test results.

Molly got there first, opening up the file that had been generated “The three main chemicals that have been identified are….Benzyl Alcohol, g-Terpinene and a-Terpineol. What has those three things in it?  
“Perfume”.

John and Molly whipped around to look at Sherlock.

“Perfume? really?” John asked incredulously.

“It should have been obvious at first, but since a week has passed since the incident, the scent of this particular perfume has completely dissipated”

Molly nodded her head, picking up the original slide “For the concentration levels to have been so high this long after the fact, the perfume would have completely soaked this material - which by the way is a cheap polyester commonly used in making women's suits”.

Sherlock perked up at this, “Women’s suits you say”. Molly merely nodded her assent.

“Well then John, looks like we have a little field trip to make”

John sighed and put his half finished coffee cup to the side “And where exactly are we going?”

Sherlock picked up his belstaff, earlier discarded over an empty work bench, and with a flourish put it back on and re-tied his scarf, all in one fluid motion. The sight of which never failed to catch Molly’s breath. This was the look of a man on a mission.

“To visit Lady Hartley of course - and to ask why a scrap of her dress skirt was found in her husbands office, drenched in perfume, around the time of her husband’s supposed kidnapping”.

Sensing that this was all he was going to get out of him, John turned to Molly and wished her a good evening , “I’ll just head out and try and flag down a cab shall I”.

He walked out of the lab, whistling, and for the third time that evening, pretending not to notice as Sherlock leaned in and gave Molly a lingering kiss on the cheek. He made a mental note to talk to Mary about it later. But for the moment - as Sherlock would say - The game is on!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem incapable of writing short chapters - this blew out around 500 words more than I planned.  
> Please let me know if anything is amiss - it is all unbeta'd.
> 
> As always, please leave your reviews and kudos to tell me how much you are enjoying this so far!

The sudden knock at the door broke Abigail out of her reverie. She had been sitting on the lounge, staring into space since she had gotten home from meeting with Sherlock Holmes. As soon as she had returned to the town house she could feel it - the emptiness that comes from someone being missing. No matter what Mr Holmes - Sherlock - said, she did love her husband, and she knew the he loved her. That he would just disappear was completely illogical. So, she had changed out of the awful suit that Mycroft had told her she should wear, into some very comfortable lounge pants and singlet, and sat down on the lounge, just planning to sit there a moment. Next thing she knew, she was being interrupted.

Sighing, Abigail threw on her dressing gown and made her way down the stairs, eager to yell at whatever inconsiderate person decided to come knocking after the sun had gone down (“I sound like an old lady” she thought to herself). She was just preparing to start the scolding when the last person she expected to see today was standing on her landing.

“Mr Holmes!” She exclaimed, “Wh-what are you doing here?”  
He was standing there, with the man she knew to be John Watson (Mycroft had shown her the files), looking at her as though he was itching to deduce her.  
“Good evening Lady Hartley, I hope we haven’t disturbed you”.  
The false politeness was not lost on John, who just glared at him, nor was it lost on Abigail.  
“Oh not at all Mr Holmes” she replied, her words dripping with sarcasm, “I was just sitting upstairs contemplating the fate of my husband - who, I should remind you, has been missing for a week and could be dead, or at the mercy of kidnappers. So no, you have not disturbed me at all”.  
Sherlock at least had the good sense to look somewhat ashamed.  
“My apologies, I should have realised this is a tough time for you. We just need to ask you a few questions”  
“We?”  
John reached his hand forward, realising Sherlock had no intentions of introducing him.  
“Doctor John Watson, pleasure to meet you Lady Hartley”.  
“A pleasure Doctor Watson” she replied, gifting him with a genuine smile “Please, come in both of you”  
She moved out the way and allowed the men to enter.s they hung up their coats.“And please, call me Abigail - the ‘Lady’ part is merely a formality”.

She led through to the parlour - slightly smaller than the upstairs sitting room, but more appropriate for guests. Suddenly realising her current state of undress, she crossed her arms in front of her, cringing that her image from the afternoon had clearly been shattered by the appearance of a certain cartoon bird all over her satin dressing gown. 

Sherlock and John sat themselves down comfortably nearby, as Abigail scooted out of the room, both to make tea and to find a more appropriate outfit. It only took a few minutes, but she realised she was stalling for time. If Sherlock Holmes was sitting in her parlour, wanting to ask questions, then he had found something. She was not looking forward to this discussion.

Settling herself down across from the two men, she poured the tea, took a bracing breath, and jumped right in.  
“So Mr Holmes what is it that you need to talk to me about?”, hoping that her words would not betray her nerves.  
“Please, call me Sherlock” He said, plastering a rather fake smile on his face.  
It was an attempt to placate her, perhaps lure her into a false sense of security. He had used this technique plenty of times on other clients - especially those he felt had something to hide. It always worked. Not this time however, as it served to only agitate her - thus snapping her out of her nervous state.  
“Mr Holmes, you have clearly come here with some intention. I am no fool. You have clearly already found something in your investigation, and need more information from my end”  
Sherlock's face fell immediately as Abigail continued.  
“I am guessing that there is some evidence to implicate me in this otherwise you could have easily waited until a more civilised hour to come to me. So let’s not play games Sherlock. What have you found, and what do you need to know”.

Both Sherlock and John sat there in shock, as this woman at least 10 years their junior scolded them. John continued to stare at her, while Sherlock attempted to gain his bearings again, thinking to himself that Abigail must be spending far too much time with Mycroft, as his abrupt ways were rubbing off on her. With that thought, he immediately asked the question that had been bugging him since Mycroft first asked him to investigate.

“What is your relationship with my brother?”.

John had the good sense to look scandalized at this, as it wasn't the line of questioning they had discussed in the cab. Abigail, however, relaxed slightly. She was anticipating this question, and was quite frankly happy to have it out in the open.

“I told you, I am his Assistants assistant”.

He scoffed, “According to your personnel file you are employed by the M.o.D as an admin assistant. How exactly is that being his ‘assistants assistant’?”.

She let out a long suffering sigh - again, expecting this question.

“Tell me Sherlock, does And-I mean, Anthea, look like the kind of person who spends her day filling in tedious paperwork to and from your brother?

He sat back slightly, contemplating her answer - trying not to dwell on the fact that she had nearly slipped up with Anthea’s true name (which he of course knew).

“Hmm...I guess not”.

“Exactly. So when Mycroft needs anything from the department, or if anyone in the department needs to run anything by him, I am the one who liaises with Anthea - or on the rare occasion I may need to go directly to him.”

Sherlock seemed satisfied with her answers - for now. It made sense that Mycroft would have someone within that Ministry to do all the leg work, and he honestly couldn't imagine Anthea hunched over a pile of paperwork every day. Seeing that he was mollified for the moment, John jumped on the chance to move this conversation towards the true reason they were there.

“Abigail, we found a large amount of perfume on a scrap of material that kind of matches the suit that Sherlock says he saw you wearing today. Any idea where that might have come from?”

She sat up a little straighter, preparing to go on the defensive here, “Well it certainly wasn't mine”.

Sherlock stood up, walking around her, surveying her. This was the part he enjoyed - the interrogation, tearing people down. If she was hiding something, he would make her crack.

“And how can you be sure of that?”

Abigail also stood, her height dwarfed by his own, but not giving him an inch.

“Two reasons. Reason one” she held up on finger, “That suit was not mine. I NEVER wear anything like that, even in the office. Anthea brought it over when she and Mycroft collected me to visit you this morning.”

“And reason two”, she held up a second finger, “If you had been thorough in your research, you will have noticed in my medical file that I am allergic to most perfumes”.

Sherlock face fell from smug to puzzlement in a matter of moments.

“Are you certain?”

She sighed - which was apparently becoming a common occurrence around this man “Yes, I am certain. Trevor can’t even wear cologne around me. As it is, Dr Watsons cologne is starting to give me a rather nasty headache, even from this distance”.

John coughed and shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the pair turned to look at him.

Turning her attention back to Sherlock, Abigail continued. “So, you currently have a scrap of material that matches that of the worst suit I have ever worn, but do not own, and perfume that has no business being in my husbands office, but that I am unable to wear”.

A curious look came over her face, almost identical to the one Sherlock was wearing. John was almost creeped out at how similar they looked (She is DEFINITELY spending too much time with Mycroft, he thought).

The pair looked at each other suddenly, with Abigail speaking first, “Somebody wants you to think that I am involved, but they clearly don’t know me. Maybe they are acting on someone's orders….”

She trailed off, leaving Sherlock to fill in the pieces.

“This is an organised kidnapping - someone is pulling their strings, being fed information. Oh this is brilliant, it’s been a while since I was involved in intrigue like this!.

And just like that he was off, out the door with barely a “Come on John!”. Far more used to this that he liked, John simply stood and thanked Abigail for the tea.

“My pleasure Dr Watson - John”. She shook his hand, and showed him out, as he tried to catch up to Sherlock's long gait.

She leant up against the door frame and watch them go, breathing in a deep breath, glad that the case was now moving away from her. A smile played on her lips, one that was very quickly dashed as she looked down, and saw a letter - THE letter - laying on the ground.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those you are still sticking around with this! I hope you are enjoying it.  
> Here is a little bit of Sherlolly goodness before we dive into the plot.

It was after midnight before John was finally able to head home to his wife and child. He and Sherlock had headed straight back to Baker Street after speaking with Abigail, the cab silent except for the sounds of Sherlocks frantic texting. Once there, the discussion turned all the possible reasons that the kidnappers were trying to make it seem like she was involved - however clumsy their efforts had been. 

John passed Molly in the hallway, who had come straight from work to visit Sherlock. He smiled as she headed up the stairs. Seeing her visiting Sherlock was so common these days that he wouldn’t be surprised if they suddenly announced they had eloped or something. That is, if Sherlock didn’t have the emotional range of a teaspoon.

Molly closed the door behind as she stepped into 221B, finding Sherlock hunched over his laptop at the kitchen table. Without saying a word, she hung up her coat, and made her way over the fridge to sort out some dinner. She knew he wouldn’t admit it, but she could tell that he loved their 1:30am dinners, especially when he was working a case and hadn’t eaten all day. He could never refuse anything that Molly cooked. So much so that he made sure to have groceries for whenever she came around.  
They ate their meal in companionable silence - Sherlock still reading through the files he had requested earlier, Molly reading through the latest medical journal that she had borrowed from Mike. They kept sneaking glances at each other as well - Sherlock was grateful that John had left, otherwise there would have been another round of ribbing at his expense. He was trying to concentrate on the information in the files, but found that he just couldn’t. Not with Molly sitting there, looking a little frazzled from her day, but still as beautiful as ever. The cosy, domestic scene of theirs warmed his heart (among other parts of his anatomy). Furtively, he sneaked a hand out to brushed against the one Molly had on the table, as she concentrated with all her might on the one paragraph that she had read at least 15 times now.

As their fingers touched, a jolt of electricity was felt between them. They looked at each other, unable to tear their eyes away, as Molly allowed Sherlock to take her hand, and pull her a little closer to him. She gasped as she found herself in his lap, her hazel eyes locked onto his ever-changing ones. She felt like drowning in his gaze.

Sherlock's hand sneaked up to cup her face so gently, skimming his thumb against her bottom lip, the one she was constantly worrying between her teeth. Every time she did that, he wanted to grab her then and there and kiss those perfect pink lips - a thought which was most inconvenient in the middle of a crime scene or while she was performing an autopsy.

Molly felt like she couldn’t breath, pinned beneath (or above) that piercing stare. His eyes would flit between her own, and her lips. She could only imagine the war that was being waged in his mind right now.

He pulled her even closer, so their faces were barely inches apart. Her breath was caught in her chest - she couldn’t believe what was happening! As he threaded his fingers through her hair, she finally found a breathe.

“Sherlock” she breathed, barely above a whisper, just for him to hear.

“Molly I - “ he began.

And then his phone began to ring.

They both groaned in frustration. Sherlock contemplated just letting it ring, throwing Molly over his shoulder and having his way with her, but he couldn’t ignore it. A phone call at 2:30 in the morning could only mean one thing. Either a break in the case, or a murder.

Letting out another frustrated moan, he reluctantly let Molly get up from his lap, noting the wonderful blush that was currently spreading across her face and down her chest. He wasn’t exactly unaffected either - he discreetly wrapped his dressing gown around him - as he pressed the answer button a little more aggressively than he intended.

“This had better be good!”  
“Sh-Sherlock?”  
His heart stopped at the sound of a woman sobbing on the other end. He immediately realised who it must be.  
“Abigail? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”  
Molly quickly turned her attention to him, noticing the immediate change in tone.  
“I-I got a letter...it said if I didn’t stop you meddling, they would come after me…”  
“Ok just calm down”  
“They said I would never find Trevor, and to stop looking! If I kept snooping around, they would kill me AND him”.  
“It’s going to be OK I promise”  
“They know where I live Sherlock!” She cried, “They got Trevor from his office, and now they know that you are involved. What the hell am I going to do!”.  
Abigail was nearly hysterical, and Sherlock felt completely helpless.  
Molly quickly scribbled down a note on a scrap of paper and held it up to him.  
“Abigail? Are you still with me?”  
He could hear her struggling to calm down, “Y-yes. Still here”.

“Okay I want you to pack a bag, We are coming to get you”.


	5. Chapter 5

It took less than 30 minutes for Sherlock and Molly to make their way to the Hartley townhouse, after successful grabbing the first cab to come past.

Sherlock felt that Molly would help in calming Abigail down - she had that sort of effect on people. Once they arrived, he whipped out his phone to quickly call Abigail on the number she had called him on - he sensed that just showing up and banging on the door would be a terrible idea. Within moments, she joined them outside, all wrapped up with her bag, and they all got back in the cab for the return journey to baker street.

 

Abigail sat across from the couple, staring out the window, like she thought they were being followed. Sensing her distress, Molly moved from her position by Sherlock's side to Abigails, and pulled the young women into her embrace. Even though Molly was just a stranger, the hug was a great comfort to her, and soon her silent sobs had died down.

 

No words were exchanged, none were needed, as the trio headed back into his flat. Wordlessly,Sherlock indicated that Abigail could take the flat upstairs, seeing the exhaustion written on her face. He watched as she trudged up the stairs, before returning his attentions to Molly.

 

“It’s late, you should probably stay here again”.

 

Relief showed on her face, as she went past him, and headed straight for his bedroom. She always kept a spare overnight bag there for the nights when her visits continued late into the night (or early into the morning). Sherlock gave her a few minutes privacy, before following her in. They often shared the bed - nothing would ever happen (although they had more than once woken to find the other tangled around their body) - but it was still a comfort to have Molly by his side. He checked his phone - by now it was nearing 4am. He set his alarm for 7am - the earliest he knew he could bother Lestrade, and joined an already sleeping Molly in his bed.

 

* * *

 

 

Molly awoke the next morning to find her bed partner gone - not that she was surprised, she knew he would have gotten up early to start tackling the latest development in the case.

At least, she mused, he had actually had a few hours of sleep. His side of the bed bore signs of having been slept in.

She rolled out of bed, and slipped on her favourite dressing gown - or more specifically, Sherlocks third best dressing gown. As she tied it around herself, she questioned whether she was in fact in a relationship with the consulting detective, and he had just failed to tell her. It wouldn’t be the first time he had decided on something and not told her about it (like telling a suspect that she was his wife in order to draw him out). Leaving that thought for the moment, she headed out of the room to see if Sherlock was still around.

 

After discovering that he had indeed already left (as indicated by the note on the kitchen table), she thought it would be the perfect time to have a shower and get ready for the day. It was her day off, but Sherlock would probably need her at some point - he always did.

Molly grabbed a cup from the cupboard, and started making herself a cup of tea, when she heard a noise from the stairs. She rushed out, only to see a rather disheveled Abigail coming down from John’s old flat. She had the comforter wrapped around her, and looked as though she had had very sleep at all.

 

“Sorry, I hope I didn’t wake you”.

 

Abigail gave a small smile, and waved her off. “No no, I just didn’t sleep much at all. It’s been a very long time since I slept in a bed thats not mine”.

 

Molly moved out the way, and let the young woman shuffle through and settle herself on the couch.

 

“Oh I don’t think I introduce myself last night - well this morning - I’m Dr Molly Hooper”.

She held out her hand, as recognition sparked in Abigail's eyes.

 

“OH! You’re Sherlock’s girlfriend”.

 

Molly was momentarily stunned, her hand still held in front of her as she tried to process this.

 

“Did...did Sherlock tell you I was his girlfriend?”

“Well...no” Abigail admitted, “but it’s pretty obvious there’s something between you”

 

Well that did it. Molly could feel her brain short circuiting - _OBVIOUS?_ She thought.

After a moment of just standing there, looking like a fish (Which Abigail bore quite well), she decided to change the subject completely. Her purpose there was to help Abigail after the shock yesterday - Molly knew that in this state she would be useless to Sherlock.

 

“Why don’t you go for a shower and freshen up? I’m sure that will make you feel a bit better”.

 

The thought of a nice hot shower after the night that she had made Abigail slump against the couch in relief.

 

“That would be wonderful thank you. I’ll just go grab some clothes first and be right back”.

 

Molly smiled as she watched Abigail make her way back up to her room, blanket dragging behind her.

 

She had no idea when Sherlock would be back, and so decided that breakfast for two was in order. As Abigail washed all her worries away, she busied herself in the kitchen, barely having to think where everything was - especially seeing as she was the one who spent a rather interesting afternoon rearranging everything into a more accesible order. As she did this, she pondered on Abigails situation, and more specifically - Abigail.

Abigail was just 28, married, and dealing with the most awful of circumstances quite well. She tried to imagine what she was doing at 28 - oh thats right, just starting out as a pathologist and mooning after a certain consulting detective. Well nothing much had changed in 8 years in that regard. Whilst Molly had dealt with her fair share of danger over the years - including being kidnapped by James Moriarty’s even more psychotic twin brother - she couldn’t imagine having to handle all that so young.

 

20 minutes later, a wonderful breakfast was on the table, and Abigail stepped out of the bathroom feeling slightly more human. As the two women ate breakfast together, they chatted of non-consequential things. Which of course brought them around to discussions of Sherlock, and then inevitably - Sherlock vs. Mycroft. They were in the middle of discussing what happened at Mycrofts last birthday (Molly had been with Sherlock when he decided to send a small wedding parties worth of cupcakes to Mycrofts office, and Abigail had been there delivering some important paperwork that he needed to sign) when the brothers stepped into Baker street, causing them to start laughing hysterically.

 

Mycroft and Sherlock stood there for a good 5 minutes while the Molly and Abigail tried to compose themselves, not helped by the fact that every time one of them looked up, they would receive a puzzled look in return, extending the bout of giggles. Eventually, they calmed down enough to engage in conversation.

 

“So, Mycroft” Molly began, wiping tears from her eyes, “What brings you here?”

 

“There has been a threat made against my...employee here. I felt it was my duty to see how she is holding up” He stated.

 

“And do you usually come and visit all your employees personally when they have been threatened?” She replied.

 

Sherlock scoffed, “Surely not, otherwise you would be mollycoddling the entire division of MI6”.

 

Abigail and Mycroft shot him identical withering looks, which he caved under (“Only for Abigails sake” he tried to tell himself).

“Sorry, that was uncalled for”.

 

Abigail immediately brightened up and turned her attentions to Mycroft.

“Thank you Mr Holmes for your concern, but I’m sure you are only here to inspect the letter that Sherlock has brought to your attention”.

 

A soft smile crossed Mycrofts face, “Admittedly, I am also here for that. But I am looking in on you, and to inform you that your department head has approved that you have an unlimited amount of time as leave, so you can return to your duties at a time of your choosing”.

 

“Thank you. Now if you'll excuse me, I will go fetch that letter for you”.

 

She made her way up the stairs, leaving the squabbling brothers behind, with Molly to be mediator as per usual. She mused on the brothers relationship - she knew Mycroft reasonably well (as well as could be expected considering her station), but she had only second hand accounts - and a rather thick file - when it came to Sherlock. It was unsurprising that they butted heads so much. Being an only child herself, she never knew sibling rivalry, but if this was the way it was in all families, she was glad to have escaped such a fate.

 

Sighing, Abigail collected the letter from her overnight bag, and returned to the group. Only to find Sherlock and Mycroft fully at it - about her.

 

“That’s unacceptable!” Mycroft said angrily

 

“She is perfectly safe here Mycroft - clearly safer than that townhouse she is living in” Sherlock retorted.

 

“There is no good reason why she can’t just return to her home, and I will re-allocate resources there for security”.

“Well, there is already a detail here! It will save the government a few measly thousand pounds, and she will be able to help with the case” Sherlock cheekily added “And it will save me so much time not having to commute”.

 

Molly stifled a giggle, as Mycroft got very worked up at that.

 

“She is not staying here and that is final”.

 

“WHY DO YOU CARE SO MUCH?”

 

“BECAUSE SHE IS MY…” Mycroft cut himself off.

 

All eyes were suddenly on him, realising his mistake. Abigail stood at the door, holding her breath - What the hell has that idiot done!

 

After a moment, he finally answered “My...most trusted employee, if you must know. She is infact in consideration for Anthea’s job when she decides to move on. And you know what a close, personal relationship I have with her”.

 

He briefly snuck a glance at her. She gave an almost imperceptible nod - one which was not missed by Sherlock. However, seeing the folded slip of paper clutched in Abigails hand, he decided to put that conversation on the backburner. There would be time to grill Mycroft later, so to speak.

 

Sherlock stepped forward as Abigail held the letter out for him - still standing awkwardly in the doorway. He grabbed the letter and stalked over to his favourite chair, hungrily consuming its words. Abigail merely rolled her eyes, and re-joined Molly at the breakfast table, trying to enjoy her rapidly cooling tea.

 

“Interesting...very interesting” Sherlock muttered from his seat. Mycroft sat across from him in the chair dubbed as ‘John’s chair’ and just waited - some days he had the patience of a saint, other days the short temper of an alley cat. Today he couldn’t decide which is which. Although after a few minutes of suffering Sherlocks mumbling, it became clear it was an ‘alley cat’ sort of day.

 

“Oh get on with it man what does it say!”? He finally snapped.

 

Sherlock merely raised his eyebrows, and jumped up from his seat waving the letter excitedly - possibly more than was really called for.

“The contents of the letter itself are rather unremarkable - just the usual “stop Holmes from interfering or we will kill you first and make it look like a suicide type thing”, Molly quietly gasped as he hurridly continued, “No, the WORDS themselves are not what distressed our  dear Lady Hartley” Abigail gave a shrug, while Molly looked at her in awe.

“What DID disturb here, was the author’s choice of ink”.

 

“What did he use” Molly asked.

 

Abigail and Sherlock looked at each other, and replied together: “Blood”.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay with this one. I toyed with the idea of actually including the whole letter, but I kept getting stuck with the wording. and besides, as Sherlock mentioned here, the words themselves are unimportant.
> 
> Hope you are all still enjoying this! This chapter is pretty long and kinda clunky I know - so please forgive me.


	6. Chapter 6

“Blood?” Molly echoed.

 

“Yes”, Sherlock replied, “And probably not taken willingly I would guess”.

 

Silence filled the room, as the implication of Sherlock's words sunk in. Molly immediately looked over to Abigail - she had been so strong so far, hopefully this would not be the thing to break her.

 

Abigail took a long sip of her tea and calmed herself before saying “That doesn’t necessarily mean Trevor is dead. I mean, they could have him in a very weakened state - it takes 4 pints of blood before blood loss becomes lethal, and I’m sure it didn’t take that much to write that letter.”

 

“Also, it might not even be Trevor’s blood” Molly supplied, “We can take the letter down to the lab and see what tests we can run on it”.

 

It was her day off, but Molly’s kind heart wanted to give Abigail some closure - and it this information would surely help Sherlock has well.

 

“Well, I can see that my presence is no longer needed” Mycroft said. He stood and made his way slowly to the door before turning to face Abigail.

“Lady Hartley” _Oh goodie we are back to formalities_ Abigail thought bitterly “While I highly recommend you return to your home - with improved security of course - it is entirely up to whether you wish to return there, or remain here at Baker Street”.

“Thank you Mr Holmes” she replied stiffly, “I shall take the day to consider my options, and I will get back to you”.

 

The sudden shift in dynamic was noticed by all, Sherlock simply adding it to the “Abigail and Mycroft” file in his mind palace.

 

Mycroft took his leave, merely nodding to the others in parting. A sigh of relief escaped Abigails lips before she control it. After a brief moment of awkwardness, it was unanimously decided that it was time to move on, and get over to St Barts as soon as possible.

 

The three of them bundled into a cab some time later - noting that the less than 12 hours ago they had all been sitting here, in less than ideal circumstances. The mood was a little tense, and surprisingly, Sherlock was the one to end the silence.

 

“So, have you decided if you are going back to that death trap of a home, or staying in the relative safety of Baker Street?”

 

Molly smacked him on the arm, giving him the “not good” glare.

 

Abigail merely giggled, “Why Sherlock, was that addressed at me….or Molly?”

 

The conversation that they had had suddenly came back to Molly’s mind. Her face started going a most wonderful shade of pink - one seemly matched by Sherlocks face.

 

“Oh I’m teasing of course” Abigail said flippantly, “Anyway, back to your question….I choose you Sherlock - I mean, I choose to stay at Baker Street...if I that is OK of course”.

 

The last part of the question had been directed to Molly, as though seeking permissions from her was more important.

 

Sherlock answered for her, “I’m sure I will have the wrapped up soon enough that it’s not too much of an inconvenience for anyone”.

Everyone suitably appeased by the situation, they clambered out of the cab and headed through to Molly’s lab.

 

The staff at St Barts were used to seeing Sherlock and Molly striding through the hospital as if they owned the place, so normally they gave them no notice. Although most did look twice when they realised the third member of the party was not Dr Watson. Abigail walked behind the pair, as they chatted between themselves, content to just observe them.

_Not dating indeed…._

 

Once in the lab things got underway quite quickly - Sherlock set about testing the blood for various properties, while Molly tested it to find the blood type whilst pulling up Trevors medical records (only took 2 minutes of negotiating some of her famous chocolate brownies with Mycroft to get the classified document). Abigail just sat to the side, watching them work. It was like a ballet - a symphony. They worked perfectly in tandem, knowing exactly what the other needed without anything needing to be said. It was like they had been doing it for years.

 

A thought started creeping into her head - that if this is what people who supposedly _weren’t_ dating were like...then maybe her marriage wasn’t as solid as she had previously thought.

 

A triumphant cry from Molly brought her out of the melancholic thoughts. Both she and Sherlock rushed over to see what the fuss was about.

Molly, wearing the biggest smile, turned the computer monitor around to show the others “The blood isn’t a match for Trevor. This blood is a 90% match for A-, when, according to his file, Trevor is AB+”.

 

Sherlock made a disgruntled noise “All we know now is that the blood isn’t his - that doesn’t really get us anyway in PROGRESSING this case you know”.

 

“At what exactly are YOU doing Sherlock” Molly shot back.

 

“I, Doctor Hooper, am analyzing the blood to see if there are any foreign bodies - dirt, vegetation, that sort of thing, that might point us in the general direction of where the letter originated”

 

“Well, MR HOLMES” Molly spat, “Why don’t you go over to your little corner over there, and wait for the results to come through, while Abigail and I go down and grab some coffee”.

 

Abigail suppressed a giggle - she knew this wasn’t a proper fight, just a bit of a lovers quarrel.

 

_So oblivious these two - if a STRANGER who had known them less than 2 days could see they were in love and deserved to be together, then what was stopping them!_

 

She dutifully followed behind Molly, leaving a pouting Sherlock in their wake.

 

It was another hour before the computer spit out anything useful - that was the problem with not knowing where to start, the search parameters can often be ridiculously large - and then 30 minutes after that before the girls returned - only to find a completely empty lab.

There was a note, sitting on the keyboard of the computer.

 

_Found something - must check it out with Wiggins_

_I’ll text you later._

_SHx_

 

Molly let out a long suffering sigh - a long, long, LONG suffering sigh. Of course he would just go off and abandon them. She couldn’t really blame him - if he had had a breakthrough, then it was his duty to run off and chase whatever lead he had found.

 

She started daydreaming about how wonderful Sherlock was, and what a great mood he would probably be in tonight - when a not-so discreet cough snapped her out of it.

 

“So….what am I supposed to do now?” Abigail asked.

 

They both knew she couldn’t exactly run around London unattended - and Molly wasn’t exactly a body guard. If only today wasn’t Johns appointed ‘only call me if the world is ending or you’re dying’ day of the month. Molly wasn’t sure if Abigail was even _allowed_ to be there, but she figured Mycroft would be able to smooth things over.

 

“How do you feel about being my assistant for the day?”

  
Abigail just beamed at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this is kind of a filler chapter, but I'm trying to get things moving a little faster, as I feel like it’s dragging a little bit at the moment. I’ll make sure I pack in a bit more action in the next chapter to make up for it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay yes this is another short chapter, with not much happening. But I have been sitting on it for while, and I just needed to get it out. Hopefully this kickstarts the slump I have had a few weeks. I know what I want to happen, I just need to make sure everything makes sense. Forgive me.

_His heart raced, the blood pumping through his veins. The air rushing through his curls as he ran - Oh how he had missed this! Why didn’t John want to do this anymore? He mused. It didn’t matter - right now, he couldn’t focus on that. He just needed to run, as the sounds of bullets ricocheting off the walls could be heard. Where is Wiggins - oh, all good, he managed to get away. Now - shit! Ignore the pain, must get out of here. Run you fool!_

 

The banging and crashing sounds coming from the lounge room weren’t unusual, but after working a double shift for the past two days, all Molly wanted was sleep. And the usual occupant of 221B clearly wasn’t having it. She had practically moved in when Abigail did - and Sherlock consequently disappeared for 2 days chasing leads - even to the point that her cat Toby was curled up on one of the kitchen chairs (completely oblivious to the noise in the next room).

 

Molly didn’t even bother with a dressing gown, marching straight into the lounge room to give Sherlock a piece of her mind - when she found him struggling to get his Belstaff off - and nursing a gunshot wound to the shoulder.

 

“Oh my god Sherlock!” she cried, immediately going to him to help.

 

“Oh Molly, good you’re awake, I believe I may need some medical assistance”.

 

With his jackets and shirt off, she helped him onto the lounge - one that had seen plenty of blood in its day. Making sure he was comfortable, she ran into the kitchen to fetch the medical supplies she had filched from St Barts many a moon ago.

 

“Where’s Abigail” Sherlock called as Molly disinfected a set of tweezers.

 

Reaching for a needle, she replied “She took John and couple of Mycrofts security detail back to her place - she was running out of clean clothes apparently”.

 

Satisfied that everything was suitable sterilized, she set to work pulling out the bullet in his shoulder. She worked fast, as Sherlock was quite a bleeder, with flashbacks to the times when he was on his original Moriarty mission, and couldn’t risk going to the hospital.

 

“Wait….why didn’t you go to the hospital this time?”

 

He didn’t need to her clarify what ‘this time’ meant - he knew.

 

“There wasn’t time, I needed to get back here and speak to Abigail” he grimaced as Molly began stitching his wound, “But I can see that was a waste of time”.

 

“I’m sure whatever it was could have waited Sherlock”

 

Happy with the work, Molly cleaned him up, and fetched a simple shirt - Abigail and John would be back any minute, and it wouldn’t do for him to be sitting around topless (no matter how many times John had supposedly seen him naked).

 

Almost as if on queue, the aforementioned pair walked into the loungeroom, their conversation stopping dead at the sight of Sherlock and Molly on the ground.

 

Abigail opened her mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by Sherlock.

 

“The Stanley Dock Tobacco Warehouse. Mean anything to you?”

 

She took a moment to think, will the stares of the others boring into her. She turned away from them, trying to remember where she had heard the name. Well most people knew about the warehouse - mostly disused...but what was it significance.

 

“Oh” She suddenly turned back to the group, “A few years ago there was a plan to turn it into a hotel. A few lobbyist groups nixed that, but theres a proposal currently going through the treasury - I can’t tell you the details exactly, I only know about half of what is going on - but I know that Trevor was looking over it”.

 

“An you think that’s why he was kidnapped?” John asked

 

Abigail gave a small nod. She nervously chewed on a jagged fingernail.

 

“Possibly, or the kidnapping was for a different reason but they know about his involvement...no...that doesn’t make sense. Regardless, judging by the bulletwound Sherlock sustained during this reconnaissance, I was say we probably have maybe 12 hours before they either move Trevor or decide that this whole endeavour is too difficult and just kill him”.

 

At the mention of Sherlock’s latest battle scar, John gives a disgusted look “I can’t leave you alone for 5 minutes can I”

 

“I’ve been gone two days, John”

 

“WELL NOBODY EVER TELLS ME ANYTHING THESE DAYS”

 

Staggering to his feet, with a little help from Molly, Sherlock adjusts his shirt and continues.

 

“Well John, I need to get to Lestrade and at least _advise_ him of our intentions of storming the docks” -  John rolled his eyes at the obvious pirate-y joke - “I would like you to stay here and watch over Molly and Abigail”.

 

Abigail began to protest, but a look from Molly made her realise it was probably for the best - more for Sherlock’s reassurance that their actual protection. She silently acquiesced, and tuned out as he continue to explain his plan to Molly and John. She turned from the others, unobtrusively getting her phone out. Without even looking, she scrolled to the appropriate contact, and sent off a single text.

  
“What the hell have you done?”


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock had rushed over to NSY as quickly as the cab allowed, very aware of how long it could take to get out to Liverpool should Mycroft deny his request for a private plane. So far he had been denied very little in relation to this case, but he knew that wouldn’t stop his dear brother from deciding to be….well, difficult

“Stanley Dock Tobacco Warehouse Eh”? Asked Lestrade, “Last I heard they wanted to turn that place into an apartment complex, stop all the local youths from shooting up there”.

Sherlock simply filed “used as a crack den” in his mind palace as Lestrade kept on going.

“That place is bloody miles away Sherlock, are you sure we would even reach it in time”?

“Abigail estimates - and I agree - that we have roughly 8 hours now until the perpetrators make their next step. Whether that be simply moving Lord Hartley to a new location or killing him. I have a few ideas as to motive, but none of them indicate what their next move could be. Depends on their end game I suppose”.

Sherlock said all this while heading towards the exit, Lestrade trailing in tow, yelling instructions to his subordinates what to do in his absence. 

The unmistakable sound of God Save the Queen coming from his phone took Sherlock's attention momentarily. The perfunctory confirmation from Mycroft that Sherlock’s use of a private plane had been approved, with wheels up in 90 minutes. Noticeably absent, was the usual threat of Sherlock “owing” Mycroft for this. Seeing as Mycroft was the one who had brought him the case in the first place, he thought perhaps this was just a way of expediting the results.

Barely slowly his stride, Sherlock turns back to Lestrade “I’m heading back to back to Baker Street to grab John and check in on the girls. We have a plane leaving for Liverpool in just under 90 minutes, I’ll text you the details”.  
Before Lestrade could even utter another word, he was out the door with a flick of his coat.

Meanwhile back at Baker Street

The mood had been tense immediately after Sherlock had left. While all 3 had clearly wanted sleep, considering the early hour, the feeling that things were swiftly moving along had the adrenaline coursing. John had been given instructions to “watch over the girls”, but his mood had him pacing the room like a caged animal instead. He simultaneously felt guilty for not being there when Sherlock got shot, and thankful that he wasn’t there GETTING shot at.  
His mood was clearly written all over his face, as Molly and Abigail watched him from the kitchen, busying themselves with a very early breakfast.  
Molly had managed to briefly slip away to put on something more decent, arguing that no-one was going to attack her in Sherlock’s bedroom (“and really John, why would anyone attack me?”).

Voices low, Molly and Abigail continued their conversation from earlier in the day.

“Do you think Sherlock suspects anything?” Abigail whispered.  
Looking over at a fairly agitated John checking his phone constantly, Molly answered.  
“I don’t think so, I don’t think he could ever even consider the possibility”

Earlier, in a fit of vulnerability, Abigail had admitted to Molly what her connection to Mycroft Holmes was. Initially, it had shocked Molly, but the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. She had promised not to tell Sherlock - mostly to see the look on his face when he finally figured it out - but also, she could tell Abigail needed to confess this. Apparently, even her own husband didn’t know.

Taking the cups of coffee over the table, Abigail called for John to join them for a moment.

“Please John, you are making more anxious than I was to begin with!”.

Clearly unhappy, he sat, and drank his coffee in silence.  
Abigail rolled her eyes and dramatically groaned “Dear God I thought Mycroft was bad when the bakery runs out of his favourite sweet rolls, what’s your problem now?”

Molly immediately burst out giggling, whether from nervousness, or just the absurdity of the situation. 

“She’s right John, there’s no immediate danger right now, Sherlock is merely briefing Greg, and then he will be coming back to get you I’m sure”.

Realising he was probably over-reacting, John calmed down a little.

“You’re right Molls, it’s just...seeing him there, and knowing I wasn’t out there, watching his back, just makes me feel...like a bit of dick actually”.  
After easing the tension a little, John tried to lighten the mood - although not very well.

“So...Abigail, how did you end up being one of Mycrofts lackeys- OW”  
Molly not so subtly kicked him from under the table, a change from her usual mousy self, but over the last few days she had formed an inexplicable attachment to Abigail, and suddenly felt rather over-protective of her.

Abigail, though, simply laughed at the question.  
“Oh that’s easy. He was actually there when I was being interviewed. Apparently he knew my mother when they were younger, University I believe. I know Mycroft Holmes isn’t usually given to fits of sentimentality, but he recognised my name, chatted to me a little bit before the interview, and the next thing I know, I’ve been offered a job with Anthea regularly stopping by my desk”

“Mycroft Holmes...chatted to you” John asked incredulously.

She took a sip of her coffee and continued.

“Yes, at the time I thought he was just being friendly, but then I found out who he was and I just felt...I guess I felt a little honoured. But also confused, if you get what I mean”.

John simply nodded, remembering his own confusing first experience with the ‘great’ Mycroft Holmes.

“I actually met Trevor not long after that, but we didn’t get together for maybe a year or so” Abigail explained. A smile crossed her face as she recalled the first time they met, at some inter-departmental seminar about some crisis or another. She laughed as she recounted one occasion when Trevor had tried to send her flowers on her birthday, only for them to end up at the desk of one of the heads of department, also named A Mackenzie, who did not find it amusing. It took a lot of grovelling to get THAT one smoothed over.

As Abigail lapsed into silence, her face fell, and both Molly and John placed a comforting hand on her shoulders.

“What if we don’t find him”? Abigail asked, obviously not expecting an answer, “What if we are too late? I don’t know what I would do without him”.

The pressure of the last few days had finally worn down her resolve, as she suddenly burst into tears. John merely sat there, looking uncomfortable, as most men are in the presence of a crying woman. Molly however, jumped to Abigail's aid, pulling her close and soothing her. Although there was a significant size difference between the two women (Molly being routinely described as ‘mousy’, and Abigail being much taller and...wider”), she felt oddly comforted by this.

After a few minutes, Abigail’s sobs finally died down, just in time to hear her phone ringing from the guest room upstairs. 

“I’m so sorry” Abigail said as she wiped the remaining tears from her eyes, “I should probably check on that”.

As she scarpered up the stairs, an awkward silence fell upon the 2 friends at the table. Molly knew John had questions (specifically, why did Molly have a selection of clothes in Sherlock’s bedroom?), but she didn’t really feel like answering them right now. Mostly, because it would lead to other questions that she didn’t really know the answer too. So for the moment, they just sat at the table, sipping their coffee. The moment was punctured by a loud CRASH coming from upstairs. 

And then the room was plunged into darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

15 minutes. He had missed them by 15 minutes.

The decision to wait for a cab with a less offensive driver had cost him that 15 minutes.

When Sherlock had returned to Baker Street, it was very evident that his friends had been taken. Looking over the scene, he could tell whoever had been sitting at the table had put up a fight - John, certainly, as his favourite coffee cup had been knocked to the ground in the struggle. He internally winced at John’s possible reaction to the cup being broken. It had been his very first Father’s day present.  
Molly - dear Molly - had been the other occupant. Her seat was disturbed, and she was the only one who sat at that particular chair (her favourite yellow floral cushion was barely hanging onto the seat). He knew she could be rather feisty when the occasion called for it, and he hoped that the blood on the countertop behind her chair had been one of the assailants, and not her own. The thought of any other man putting his hands on Molly made his chest constrict in a way he hadn’t felt for a while. 

As for Abigail….

Sherlock turned to face the stairs, trying to visualize Abigail being dragged down the stairs from the guest room….but something didn’t seem right. Surely there would be scuff marks on the steps, something to indicate she had been forcefully taken. He couldn’t imagine that they would drug her. The thought of thugs trying to carry her down the stairs was laughable. He briefly heard Molly’s voice in his mind, chastising him for such a callous dig at the woman's weight at such a time.   
Suitably reprimanded by his subconscious version of Molly (and trying very hard not to think about the various ways REAL Molly could...reprimand him), he brought his mind back to the task at hand.

He bounded up the stairs, desperate to find any clues Abigail might have left - as the investigation continued, he was beginning to realise just how smart she was. It was no wonder that Mycroft had been drawn to her.

No matter what Sherlock thought he would find when he looked in the room, he still wasn’t prepared for the reality, especially when he was already dealing with his raging anger that someone had taken his best friend and his….well, his Molly.

The mirror on the dresser had been smashed - whether from something been thrown at it or during a struggle he couldn’t be sure. Written on the mirror, in a very distinctive shade of red, was just 2 words. He didn’t know if it was supposed to be a clue….or a demand….

THE DOCKS

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The nearly 3 hours it took to get to Liverpool was the longest of Sherlock’s life. Given the gravity of the situation, Mycroft managed to persuade the Captain to bring up the departure time. Again, Sherlock was mildly surprised at the lengths Mycroft was going to assist him in this investigation. But perhaps he was feeling guilty that his usual surveillance methods on Baker Street had failed to stop this happening in time. Of course, Mycroft had also insisted on accompanying him out to the warehouse, although he did stress that he would not leave the safety of the bulletproof town car that would be waiting for them when they landed. 

It was at times like this, that Sherlock dearly wished he had not sworn off all forms of addictive substances (including cigarettes, which he would KILL for right now). His mind was a torrent, and he desperately needed to calm it down so he could look at the facts more clearly. Either that, or dull everything completely. He didn’t really mind which at this point.

He settled for diving into his Mind Palace, in an attempt to wrestle in some of the feelings and thoughts that kept getting in the way of his investigation. He needed to focus on the facts, and prepare himself for what was certainly going to be a confrontation at the end of this plane ride. Instead, he found himself wandering the halls, making his way towards what he had dubbed “Molly’s Wing”. What had started off as simply a file had snowballed into room after room, as he could never forget any of their interactions. 

The time that he had used her townhouse as a bolthole, because John had insisted on making out with one of his heinous girlfriends on HIS couch (pre-Mary of couse), and she merely sitting in her comfiest chair, Toby the cat curled up underneath, whilst she read some truly trashy romance novel, was playing out before him. It was in the days before his Fall, when he still made her stammer and blush. Sherlock knew he used her terribly, playing upon her affections. He was a cruel bastard at times, and it wasn’t until he realised how much she cared, hell...how much HE cared that he tried to change his behaviour. Although he missed how much he affected her, he loved how much she could affect HIM. The subtle (and not so subtle glances) across the lab, the nights spent just lying next to each other, Molly flirting right back at Sherlock when he was trying to get his way. 

The scene suddenly changed, and he could see himself and Molly, the night that Abigail had been threatened. He knew that if his phone had not gone off, they would have moved their activities to the bedroom. Beyond that? All he knew was that he wanted Molly to stay with him forever.

Sherlock Holmes, was in love, with Molly Hooper.

If (WHEN he mentally corrected himself), they got out of this situation, he was going to take her back to Baker Street, and never let her go. He would do whatever it takes to keep her by his side.

That thought of course, brought him back to the situation at hand, and he was finally able to start putting the pieces of his mind back together.

Meanwhile...  
Mycroft let out a rather audible sigh, hoping to get Sherlock’s attention. He could tell that Sherlock was deep within his mind palace, but he was desperate to hear Sherlock’s thoughts on the case so far.  
After a few minutes, it was evident that Sherlock would not be resurfacing for the moment, he was very tempted to hit him with his umbrella. While it had only been 2 weeks, Mycroft had HOPED that a resolution to the case would have been more forthcoming. The longer it went on, the more likely certain events were to come to light, and he wasn’t quite ready to deal with the fallout from that just yet. 

He settled for giving Sherlock a not so subtle prod with the point end of the umbrella.

It was Sherlock’s turn to sigh loudly, and immediately launched into the facts he had put together.

“Fact 1, Lord Hartley has now been missing for over 2 weeks. It is one hundred percent certain at this point that he was kidnapped, however the kidnappers have never even bothered to send a proper ransom note. 

Fact 2, Despite this, they went to the effort of trying to implicate Abigail - I mean Lady Hartley. Very sloppily, either due to limited intelligence, or limited intelligence.

Fact 3, you are VERY eager for me to solve this one aren’t you?”

This last fact was directed straight at Mycroft.

“Well of course I am, Lord Hartley is a valued member of his team, and has been dealing with very sensitive information” Mycroft sniffed, unconvincingly, “He doesn’t have any training in dealing with torture, so it is likely that said information could fall into the wrong hands”

“And what of the Lady Hartley?”

Sherlock considered his brother for a moment. Normally he was exceptionally good at not giving anything away with his expressions. However, in certain moments of stress, he had a very small tell, the barest twitch of an eye.

His eye almost completely winked at Sherlock’s implication.

“I promise you, I will disclose the information when I feel the time is right. At this moment? No, definitely not the right time. I feel it would distract you more than your emotional attachments already have”.

“Now pull yourself together. Our descent has begun. We will be at the Warehouse very soon”.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The first thing Sherlock noticed as entered the warehouse, were the shoes. He knew that the red soled Christian Louboutins were quite popular, but something about them made his heart race. The wearer of said shoes had her back to him, but a rather nasty feeling game over Sherlock. He felt like he was being dragged kicking and screaming back into the game.

The second thing he noticed? Molly and John,bound and kneeling at the feet of two burly thugs, and quite clearly suffering from the effects of being drugged.

As more of the room came into view, his heart was in his throat. The logical, unfeeling part of his brain was telling him to stay calm, be detached - this was just another case after all. The emotional side that tended to rear it’s head whenever the people he loved were in danger was fighting for control.

Control which very nearly snapped when the woman turned around to face him.

“I’m so glad you could join us Sherlock”.

In that moment, he felt like he had been had. Lady Abigail Hartley, the woman he had been helping for over a week now, was standing with a gun pointed at him, dressed for all the world like a far bustier version of ...The Woman?   
Although, even with a quick glance, he could tell that she made subtle changes to make the look more...Abigail. Everything from her not-so perfectly coifed hair, to her slightly more colourful wiggle dress. The imagery was almost too much for Sherlock. Steeling himself, he stalked further into the room.

“I guess I underestimated you Lady Hartley - if that really is your name after all”.

Abigail chuckled, staring Sherlock down.

“Maybe I should introduce myself properly, Mr Holmes”

“I am the protege of one James Moriarty, and Irene Adler. I am also the daughter of one Elizabeth Andrea Mackenzie….and Mycroft Rudyard Holmes”

“Hello Uncle Dear”.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a review and let me know what you think.  
> Chapter 2 is already written, so I will post that very soon.


End file.
